Spiral
by EclipseKlutz
Summary: Four years later, Violet’s college life is complicated by an unstable boyfriend and a vengeful Syndrome has escaped prison. When his want for revenge and her need for sanity clash, they learn that allies can be found in the most unlikely places. HIATUS.
1. Prologue

**A/N (4/4/05): **All right, spelling errors fixed, etcetera, etcetera. I apologize for lack of vivid detail in this version, but to be morbid and the like at my aunt's house isn't a brilliant idea… still trying to figure out whether or not to take this down, at the moment it's leaning more towards the 'not'. Someone comment on this dispute, _please_—it's highly appreciated to argue with someone other than myself.

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**Spiral  
****_Prologue  
_****By EclipseKlutz**

**PG-13, T... Whatever it's supposed to be now  
Drama/Angst/Possible Romance/Honestly not sure yet**

**Disclaimer: **If I owned _The Incredibles _I might be more happy about not having my computer with me 'cause I'd have a laptop... also, I might not be as broke as I am right now, so don't bother to sue—all you'll get is a couple of Starburst wrappers and my little brother's sketch book. I get no profit from writing what I write. (See previous note about how broke I happen to be.)

**

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_"…Lie to me, convince me that I'll be sick forever  
And all of this will make sense when I get better…"  
_**Evanescence: **Breathe No More

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**September 6, 2006  
0309 hours **

His first conscious thought was hazy in itself, allowing no structural sense his mind could reasonably translate. Simply a notion; a command for something—anything—to move, to erase the freezing numbness splintered through every molecule of his being. His fingers wouldn't curl nor budge—pure led despite his desperate tries to flex them; his legs were dead weights, anchoring him to whatever it was he lay on; his eyes refused to flutter, and for a fleeting moment he worried they'd been wired shut.

'_Is… is this Hell?' _He wondered. Again he tried to move something—twist his neck, feel some movement, some presence of muscle or bone or flesh. It had to be there—he couldn't exist without it… could he?

He discarded the notion, deciding it better to focus on the sounds slipping through. Cloaked and tinny noises, but they were something… something hinting at life. Or a form of it anyway. He measured it, made feeble attempts to decipher the words blended in there, distinguish different patterns, noises, or voices from one another.

_'No. Not Hell…' _he decided at last. It sounded slightly less chaotic then any Hell he'd ever envisioned, and the smell he was beginning to endure was much more pleasant. Mangos and Windex, perhaps? Wretched combination, but certainly not sulfur or rot or… It seemed best to stop his train of thought there.

Why did sulfur ring a bell? Faint, but distinct all the same—some chapter in his life that wanted so badly to emerge. He tried to focus on it, to pick and pry at it, yet received nothing yet a large gap—empty space. It took him a moment to realize that aside from this, he had no other memories he could find… nothing.

What had happened to him?

More sounds and disgruntled noises echoed in his ears, partly pleading him to listen and partly telling him it was better to be ignorant to what they had to say. He didn't have some split-personality disorder, did he? That would make for an interesting life… After a moment of contemplating said disorder, he returned his attentions to the noises in the room.

Clanking materials, metal maybe?—voices donning demanding tones—frantic voices—surprised voices—awed voices—too many assorted people speaking and talking and chatting away his already fragile concentration... What were they saying? Why couldn't he understand them? Why did he care? It was pointless, completely and utterly pointless to pay half a mind to whoever or whatever stood outside the veil of this limbo he'd been forsaken in.

He wanted to be with them, wanted to be out. This _was _Hell, or some form of it—an in between place in which he was completely alone and completely mute. He needed to speak, to feel something in his body work. He was beginning to wonder if he had been a very much worthless mediator in the life he'd forgotten. Nah. That sounded too farfetched. He wasn't special. That was for The Supers to be...

The Supers. The mention of the title had triggered something deep down, some form of hatred that threatened to consume him, if it had not already. Something plastered itself in the barren wasteland where his memory should have lain, and he quickly snatched at it and dragged it to the front of his mind. It was a still-shot, but what he felt when he studied it was both horrifying and relieving.

Four figures fighting side-by-side dressed up in identical form-fitting red suits. Two off to the side, smaller than their company, more innocent, both protecting the other while trying to save themselves. The other two were much older, probably somewhere in their forties, and obviously betrothed. He knew instinctively that it was a family standing before him on a mud-encrusted plateau, one he loathed for a reason he couldn't yet understand. He tried again to claw at the picture, dissect it and make it make sense, there was no reason not to; after all, he had all the time in the world.

The one at the far end was shorter than the rest; blonde as well. Stocky, still had most, if not all, of his baby fat in tact, yet apparently fast. There was a blur behind the youngster, indicating that it had dodged... something. Beside him, yet slightly back, stood a rather lanky girl, scrawny and withdrawn, with a figure that hadn't quite filled out _enough _yet. Otherwise, long obsidian hair and dark eyes... she had potential to be a beautiful young woman. Someday. He noted that she'd set up a barrier between herself and their attacker, it appeared sturdy enough; she had some talent in her as well.

The woman reminded him of those rubber dolls that twist and turned and stretched until they made you dizzy. Brown hair cropped near her chin, small waist and wide hips... definitely a mother. Her expression read off something resembling determination... she was loyal enough to the others he was staring at. She was of no interest to him.

Beside her was the target of his hatred: a bulk of a man holding an impossibly large boulder in the palm of his hand while the other was tearing something from the skies above his head. His legs were slightly bent at the knees, as though hinting at some strain set upon him from these actions, but otherwise there was no sign of weakness. Blonde hair and an expression that told all who looked he was dead-set on getting out with his family alive. Why did he hate this man? _What had happened?_

A flash of fire and an explosion drifted across his mind, but other than that... darkness. He'd survived something big and now he was sick, with all these complaints and syndromes and... Syndrome. That was him. Amidst all the confusion his brain could register, he _knew _that the only fact he was aware of at the moment was his pseudo, his alias. Syndrome; because he was a disease to the world.

And, at the moment, to himself.

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**A/N: **Um... if I beg on my hands and knees will you review? If I tell you I'll review your stories in return will you review? Yeah, I'll review your stories if you review mine. Promise... well, assuming I'm familiar with the catagory they're written for.But I need feedback, don't just review to review, 'k? Should I continue? Should I rewrite the prologue? Do I have to feed you all cookies for reading this? Does it make any sense to you? Shall I shut up now? 

Okay, I actually have mass amounts of ideas for this one, so start reviewing. And I apologize for any spelling errors in the last parts, I couldn't write on the word document anymore... I'm not using my computer so this is a minor issue. I'll fix it when I get home... Alright, done stalling you, REVIEW! (Have I dropped enough hints yet?)


	2. Chapter I: Damage

**Spiral  
****Chapter I: _Damage  
_By EclipseKlutz**

**PG-13, T. Whichever you prefer.  
Still deciding.**

**Disclaimer: **Me no own. You no sue.

**

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_"...I know, you'd better believe that everything you do  
You can't understand it or ever justify  
I don't want to be your guide  
But stay with me and think for a while again…"  
_**Lacuna Coil: **The Secret

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**August 13, 2009  
0143 hours**

He'd chosen the tiny bungalow by chance, deciding that as it was near a campus there was a chance he'd either be bombarded with a crowd of college kids or that he'd only have to hold a few students hostage within their home. The latter seemed more likely to take place, and so without much more hesitation he'd slipped through the door, surprised to find it already unlocked, and into the houseunder the cover of the overwhelming darkness.

It opened into the kitchen, a nice place despite its location. Slightly dirty linoleum flooring, originally colored a pasty white, was accented rather horribly by the pale peach walls; the far wall, which was only about three feet from where he was standing, was lined for a few feet by old counters bearing a microwave and a cheap coffemaker; a fridge stood in the corner, bleach-colored with a small freezer at the top, and beneath the sink embedded into a small portion of the countertops was a plastic trash can. Not far from this set-up was a small, round table and two very cheap chairs beside a few cans of paint. Apparently the inhabitant was planning on some redecoration, he couldn't help but check the colors; a smoky eggplant-purple and an off shade of gray. Not the colors he'd use... of course, he'd spent his college years in a frat house, not a rent-a-home.

He yawned and flicked on the light, pulling the blinds above the nearby window closed so as not to alert his presence to any late-night strollers. He was hungry, and that was a problem that took top priority. Hospital food was thoroughly inedible, and he'd been living off of it for the past three years... popcorn sounded nice.

After a moment of searching, he fished a bag from a drawer in the counters and tossed it unceremoniously into the microwave before punching in the time. Two minutes, forty-five seconds... he was not willing to wait idly around for that amount of time; he'd done enough waiting. Frowning to himself, he decided that exploring the remainder of the flat was a somewhat decent way of wasting his time.

The first door out branched into the bathroom, a small room that would be the location of any claustrophobic's nightmares held the usual furniture of the room: toilet, old shower, sink with a crack near the top, and a mirror. Nothing thrilling. Out of that room, he entered the living room, or a demo version of one. Like the rest of the place, it was small, holding only a ratted loveseat, a small television, a bookcase, and a portable radio. He didn't mind, it seemed cozy enough, even though he was tempted to wait around and see if a cat would stray in. It seemed like the place for a cat-person. From there, he entered the bedroom, still nothing interesting. A bed, a window, a nightstand, an alarm clock, and an open suitcase. The only thing that told him anything here was the fact that he'd invaded a female's apartment. Nothing interesting.

Defeated, he slouched back into the kitchen just in time for the microwave to announce the fact that it was finished artificially heating his meal. He pried open the door and reached in, his frown deepening when he saw the scorch marks along the side of the bag. _Thrilling. _

He was preparing himself to groan and complain to no one about his ruined "dinner" when the door creaked open and in slumped the damaged form of a girl, the one he assumed to be the owner of the bungalow he'd crashed. Her figure collapsed halfway through the door and she apparently lost her grip on the conscious world. By the state of her battered appearance, he was surprised she'd made it as far as she had; someone had obviously taken great, sadistic pleasure in beating her and it hadn't been the first time. Fresh bruises were already forming atop slightly older ones, although the attack had to have been recent-the blood on her newer scrapes had yet to harden.

He paused, and approached her tensely, as though unsure what to do. After a moment of contemplation and deciding that she needed help, he stuck his foot in front of the door, holding it open long enough for him to kneel down and pull the girl into his arms. He stood, shakily finding his balance and hastily made his way across the kitchen into the bathroom. Shifting her weight to one arm, he pulled open the shower door and fiddled with the knobs. Cold water, hot water? It didn't matter... He spun it one way, hoping he wouldn't burn to death or obtain hypothermia, and stepped inside, holding her beneath the rabid, pulsing flow of the water.

Awkwardly, he leaned over and snatched a washcloth from the nearby stand and started making feeble attempts to wash the blood from her forehead, deciding he'd move to the scrapes on her raw knuckles later. She choked out a cough, sputtering more of the vermilion fluid out of her system. He suppressed a sigh, realizing he ought to give the heroes more credit then he did, this was hard, irritating work. Her eyelids fluttered and she shifted in his arms, turning her face away from the onslaught of water. A small twitch, but she remained unconscious. His job done, he reached over and turned the faucet off, and stepped out of the shower, and set her down on the toilet seat as he grabbed the towel from the bar on the shower door. Wrapping it around her shoulders, he scooped her into his arms once more.

She was breathing a little easier now, but it'd take some more work; this, he was sure of. He padded across the family room, into the bedroom and dumped her on the bed without ceremony. As he turned to fish a blanket from the closet, he noticed the photograph. It was a simple one of a family of four standing outside their house on a sunny day... the same family who's images had been the first to be engraved into his mind. He turned, looking over at the girl, only now noticing the similarities: raven hair, milky pale skin, probably dark eyes... Violet Parr.

"Well, this sure is interesting," he murmured as he pulled a blanket from the top shelf. Draping it over her small figure, he looked back to the picture, and tipped it over. "Very interesting."

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**A/N: **Hm. Still contemplating taking it down and redoing it. Again, writing it up on FF, so don't expect much, k? Also, can someone PLEASE review? I live by them, please don't deprive me of them. 

Things will explain themselves later, assuming this version's still up. And I quit with the date and stuff, that was just to show the time difference from then and now.


	3. Chapter II: Intruder

**Spiral  
****Chapter II: _Intruder  
_By EclipseKlutz**

**PG-13, T... I'm confused!  
Pending, still... not sure what to do with it yet... Still too lazy to fetch the notebook.**

**Disclaimer: **Unless you want an empty root beer bottle, don't bother with a lawsuit-my saliva isn't worth it. Anyways, I don't own Bugs Bunny, Daffy Duck, or _The Incredibles_... Don't even have enough money to buy the DVD. Gotta love parents, huh?

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_"...Hands on the mirror, can't get much clearer  
Can't make this all go away..."  
_-**Nickelback: **Because of You

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The couch was lumpy, uncomfortable, but he set up fort there anyways, having come to the conclusion that if/when the young woman in the next room awoke, he'd hear. The following conversation might be a bit... awkward, but it was the least of his problems at the moment; the worst was the breaking news on CNN. 

"...Convict, now identified as Buddy Pine, the man behind the murders of several Supers in hiding, escaped from Wade's High Security Ward for the Criminally Insane last night around nine PM, and currently is believed to be within the Los Angeles area. Pine, although unarmed, should be regarded as highly dangerous, if you see him please call the number at the bottom of the screen," The anchorwoman, Michelle, announced, her voice calm and silky. She knew more about his escape then she was releasing to the public, that much was obvious just by looking at her.

He scowled, readjusting his position on the loveseat and flipping through the channels. News... more news... his face plastered to a wanted poster... something about some guy being moved to the death row tomorrow... Bugs Bunny giving Daffy the slip again... Settling for old cartoons, he closed his eyes, not about to fall asleep, yet unable to prop them open any longer.

-z-

_He pulled up beside her house, the dark turquoise Explorer glinting in the light cast by the streetlamp. "'Mon, Vi...I wanna get goin'."_

_His words were slurred, a sign of trouble she recognized only too well. He'd been drinking again, but maybe he wouldn't hurt her tonight, maybe he'd changed. As she stood in front of the mirror, fumbling to pull her very disobedient hair into a pony-tail, the little nagging voice in the back of her head was screaming at her not to go, not again-if she did, she might not live to see tomorrow._

_She drowned it out; Sure, everything he'd done was wrong, but he loved her... right? And she loved him. Of course he loved her too. He had too..._

_"'Mon, Vi!" His voice was loud, impatient. "I wanna go now-id'll be fun..."_

_He wasn't pronouncing his words right. That wasn't good; he'd definitely been drinking more than just a little. What if she said no? Made up some excuse about being busy? Would he leave? Would he stay? Would he hurt her? The little voice was back, pleading with her to hide, to call the cops, to tell them everything he'd done. The voice she listened to normally continued to fight back—arguing that he could have changed, just like he'd promised. _

Violet rolled onto her side, her arm colliding with something hard. She groaned, not about to try and open her eyes... Where was she now? Vaguely, she recalled wandering through the streets of L.A., a mental mess and physical disaster. Maybe she made it home, collapsed in bed... wet... was it raining? She slowly moved a delicate hand up, grasping the towel by her shoulders... her clothes were soggy... her hair was damp... It must have rained; but wouldn't she remember?

Slowly, hesitantly, she pulled herself into something that almost resembled a sitting position and looked around. She was definitely home... and she'd apparently attacked the alarm clock upon awakening. That didn't explain the slight problem she had with being water clogged though.

"Eh," she mumbled, rolling from the bed. She hit the ground with a loud "thump", and allowed another moan to pass through her throat. She was _not _having the best night of her life. She grabbed for the comforter on her bed, grasped the light blanket instead-the difference didn't matter, it was a start. Shakily, she climbed to her feet, not releasing the bedspread until she was sure her balance was in tact.

_'Ramen sounds nice,' _She resolved after a moment; assuming she didn't burn the house down trying to make it, she could make some attempt to revive the facts of just why she was wet while gulping down something steaming and easy enough to digest.

With this, she stumbled out of the room, into the family room, and found herself face to face with... someone. The intruder bore a frown on his face upon seeing her and motioned quickly to the couch. She couldn't quite make out his words, he was murmuring...She did not have time for this. Without pause, she made a move to shove past him, and he grabbed her shoulders as she did so. He wasn't rough, but not exactly gentle either, as he pointed to the couch, repeating his previous order: "Sit."

She didn't budge; if he wanted a fight, she'd win; she was pissed-and groggy-enough to at this point. "Who're you?"

His frown deepened, as though he'd expected her to recognize him. He shook off the expression quickly, however, and motioned back to the loveseat, "Sit."

"Can you say _any_thing else?" She demanded testily. "Get out."

A sigh issued from his lips and he stepped towards her, leaving only an inch or so for the gap separating them. "Motrin? Advil? Preferences?"

"Huh?"

"I imagine you're in some pain," he stated in a matter-of-fact tone.

This took her by surprise, "Why do you care?"

"I've got reasons," He responded, his voice suddenly shadowed over with flickers of an emotion she couldn't place. Interesting. "Motrin or Advil?"

"You expecting me to trust you?" Her voice was hollow, vacant-not how she'd originally intended for it to sound.

He shook his head, orange hair falling over his eyes... déjà vu struck her, then fleeted, leaving her standing before him befuddled and surprised. After a moment, he answered with actual words: "No. I don't want you to."

"Then why are you trying to help me?"

"Because... I need to redeem myself."

"What for?"

"Earlier... issues."

With that, he turned on his heel and would say no more.

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**A/N: **Alright, wrote this during the _American Idol _commercials, so I apologize for crappiness. I can't spell to save my life, by the way... can't wait 'till I get home, spell check. Anyways, I've been pondering it (kind of) and I've decided that maybe I could take this down, fix the spelling errors, and post this version, along with the notebook version, on my website. Then I'll rewrite it, make it longer and easier to read and more compatible with my ideas, and post that one. This okay with you guys? Also, figure it's best to ask: What do you want to happen? I'm just curious, not saying it'll happen, just... eh, I'm repeating myself. 

**Valude: **Yeah, sorry 'bout the spelling errors as previously stated, couldn't spell if my life depended on it. Don't think I've strayed much... have I strayed? Kinda figured that a near-death experience (sp?), and then being trapped in a mental institution and a hospital for a bit would leave him a little bit less cocky, and possibly softer. But that could just be me... Thanks a ton for reviewing! Oh, and went to your page-and I completely agree with your opinions of Jareth. He rules.

**Xalias: **Damn; you're cool. Stop being hard on yourself; I'll give you a box of... um, lemons for it. Thanks for the recommendations, and honestly, I have no clue what that li'l box is for either. Prol'ly to waste space or somethin'... And thanks a ton for all the compliments, and the attention! Oo... and for reviewing both chapters and... um, everything else. I really appreciate it, and it's definite encouragement. Insane is good. Enthusiasm is good, too. Cookies are good too... but that's a bit off topic.

**R.K.R.: **Thanks a ton. Hope you like the updates... I don't... but oh, well...

**Melady101: **Oh, wow, thanks! And I beg 'cause... well, I beg. It seems effective enough. - Hope this update was quick enough, and yup-Violet it is. And suspense? Suspense is good. Very good. Again, thanks!

Alrighties, blue button says review. Listen to it.


	4. Chapter III: Irony

**Spiral  
****Chapter III: _Irony  
_****By EclipseKlutz **

**PG-13, T**  
**…**

**Disclaimer: **The day I own something as popular as _The Incredibles _is the day I'm rich, which apparently won't be anytime in the near future. So, I don't own this, don't own the various Supers that are likely to be mentioned later—they're from the extra stuff on the DVD—but I'm fairly certain I have some claim to the plot… Also,  
the phrase "glorified concoction of toaster parts" is a slightly tweaked version of Vampiric13's opinion of her computer. Now I'm gonna stop this before I further depress myself.

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_"…You wish you were, you're not my friend  
__I can see you suffocate; I can find no other way  
__Try to make you saturate, I can be your enemy  
__Why should I have to wait—I'll just look the other way…"  
_**Breaking Benjamin: **I Wish I May

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He'd left her on the couch, not laying out any rules or precautions for her to follow or take, simply walking into the kitchen claiming that he was in desperate need of some form of edible food. She'd made an attempt to inform him that with the dysfunctional appliances set up, he'd be lucky to properly prepare said food, but he hadn't listened. And as a result, she sat curled up on the couch staring blankly at the news making some effort to tame her hair as she thought everything over.

Despite her insistence for a response, he'd made a point of ignoring her when she asked what the hell he was doing in her house… with slightly more colorful words. And when she'd tried to intimidate him by allowing herself to fade into transparency, he'd rolled his eyes and stated quite bluntly that he already knew who—and what—she was.

That had left her a bit paranoid, but she disregarded it the moment she turned her attentions to the television and listened to the headline that was running rampant through all the large news broadcasters.

Violet frowned as the brush hit another tangle and she found herself forced to pry it out. No serious damage accompanied, but it was an irritatingly demanding task to have to comb out one's hair with their fingers. She pulled the section, holding it before her face so she could see what she was doing, and began picking at the knot. Definitely not the best night of her life.

A loud _beep _echoed from the kitchen, the third one in ten minutes. _He_-It-Syndrome-Buddy Pine-whatever the Hell he went by groaned and cursed, and once again the scent of burning substances drifted through the air. After a moment, he reappeared in the doorway, holding a scorched bag of popcorn by his thumb and index finger.

"_What _am I doing wrong?" He demanded, his voice and expression fringed with unconcealed frustration. This inability to cook such a trivial thing seemed to be taking a decent impact on his ego—an entertaining site, but not one she cared to experience again.

Violet suppressed a yawn and made a feeble effort to climb to her feet. Despite the medications, she continued to feel battered and aching as though she'd been to Hell and back. This was not a fact that gave her a sweet and fluffy attitude towards the world.

She limped forwards, wincing as she shifted her weight to her right ankle and deciding to take inventory of her injuries upon returning to the couch. She walked past Syndrome—Buddy—_him_, and over to the counter where five other bags of fried popcorn sat steaming.

She knew enough to know that kneeling while she was in this state wasn't a bright idea, and instead turned to… him, "Um…"

He got it, and crossed the room before stooping in front of the cupboards and fishing out a fresh package. He handed it to her as he stood, the slight smirk plastered to his face giving off the gentle tease before he voiced it, "Verbally inadequate now?"

"No," Violet snapped, pulling off the plastic, and sticking the bag in the microwave. "You didn't keep the wrapper on them, did you?"

"What do you take me for, Vi—can I call you Vi?—an idiot?" He responded, the smirk growing slightly larger as though he already knew the answer to both questions. He was simply provoking her now, and apparently enjoying it.

She rolled her eyes, ignoring him as she punched in a random time and shut, or rather slammed, the door.

"Gees, no need to kill that poor thing," He said, continuing to tap-dance on her nerves.

She cocked an eyebrow at him, "You're defending my glorified concoction of toaster parts?"

"Point taken," he responded, playing along like this exchange was a game… it probably was. "Continue to abuse it."

Her mind froze at the mention of that word—the one several people had claimed was being inflicted upon her, whether or not she wished to see it. _'Not true!' _part of her mind argued, the other would lapse into silent defeat. She was skeptical—afraid, she had powers, she could fight back—why couldn't she? Why? Why, why, why, _why_?

-z-

Syndrome hesitated, caught off guard by the sudden far-away look that fell across her features. He frowned, not comfortable when placed in a position where he didn't understand something or know what to do about it… at the moment it seemed to be both, although the latter was more of a nuisance.

He liked to claim that he planned everything, thought it through to the end so it would go smoothly and without failure on his part—and sometimes the statement applied, but most of the time he was impulsive. He hadn't known what was going to happen with the jet turbine; he hadn't planned his attempt to kidnap Jack-Jack, he'd simply gotten caught up in the moment and decided it'd be Plan B. He hadn't predicted that he'd be stuck in the hospital for as long as was, and certainly hadn't thought that he'd be hiding out in Violet Parr's house after his escape…

So far, the tendency to be impulsive had been his downfall. Possibly like the lack of a filter between his brain and his mouth, but that was a different concept. In the overview, it can simply be stated that he'd _always _had a plan, and it came quick—even if he was forming it as he went.

Now, facing a girl whose expression seemed to hint that she belonged in an asylum more than he had, no plan popped into his mind. No bright ideas unveiled themselves with cunning notions and acts. Nothing—just a blank.

His official resolve was to fall to the classics, and wave a hand in front of her face. "Hello? Any brain activity in there?"

She blinked, seeming to slowly and groggily emerge from the state that she'd been in—whatever that was. Suddenly she slapped his hand away, pulled a chair away from the table and collapsed into it.

"You okay?" His voice was cautious as he asked the question.

"Uh-huh," She mumbled. "Just peachy."

He opened his mouth to further comment just as smoke wafted into the air and the timer on the microwave started buzzing uncontrollably. A groaned seeped through his lips instead of words as he yanked open the appliance and dragged out yet another crisp, dark brown bag of popcorn.

From her spot at the table, Violet started laughing—a sound that started low and slowly grew slightly louder. No matter how bruised she was, no matter how defeated, she could find the humor in the situation. That was something he appreciated—something he _used _to have…

He couldn't help it, he started laughing to.

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**A/N: **Well, I apologize for the time it took to update. Have been slightly preoccupied lately, but oh, well. Doesn't matter. I apologize for the shortness of these chapters. Still debating whether or not to take the fic down and rewrite, so input on the topic is needed, as is feedback on the fic.

All right, see the little blue button at the… left hand corner of your screen? See how it says review? Click it, write something pretty or otherwise constructive. Please…?

**Melady101: **FOUR! Ack… how do you manage? I get up at seven and I still can't stay awake all day. Okay, done now—And yeah, I know it's not PG-13 so far, but there will be upcoming things that will redeem this.

**Xalias: **So? Different states of mind are good. I still think you're cool… anyways, back on track as you said: Thanks a ton for the review! Still very much appreciated.

**PhantomPhan: **Thank you! Stream of consciousness…? I'm afraid you'll have to elaborate that one…

**R.K.R.: **Okay, update. Happy? Thanks, by the way… a lot.

**Rogue4: **Thanks for the compliments and encouragement and reviewing and… yeah. Clinical is a good thing. All right, Syndrome and Violet? You mean together-together or…? Sorry, slightly slow today.

**Gremblin: **Um… you're welcome…? Should be thanking you for reviewing—I love reviewers. They are nice people. I sound idiotic, I'll stop now. And yeah, Syndrome's my favorite too—just after Edna…

**J752572: **lol. Hm, how… complimenting? Thanks for the review!


	5. Chapter IV: Roses

**Spiral  
****Chapter IV: _Roses  
_****By EclipseKlutz **

**PG-13, T  
****Still not sure…**

**Disclaimer: **Don't own _Incredibles_, all right? Has that been laid out yet? Now excuse me while I try and find a way to drag Edna into this fic…

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_"Fumbling his confidence and  
__Wondering why the world passed him by  
__Hoping he's bent for more than arguments  
__And failed attempts to fly, fly…"  
_**Switchfoot: **Meant to Live

* * *

The earlier hysteria had died down, only to be replaced by a shifty silence as Violet limped over to the cupboards and dragged a cardboard cereal box to the counter, a slight frown occupying her face, "I have nothing worthwhile here…"

Syndrome didn't bother to object as he unceremoniously dropped the last bag of attempted popcorn into the trashcan, and reached into the refrigerator for the milk. What he wound up with, however, was _slightly _outdated and possessed a rather unappetizing moss-green tint.

He grimaced, "You need to go shopping."

"I know," she sighed in response, motioning to the trashcan. "I meant to…"

He glanced at her out of the corner of his eye; the fashion in which she'd allowed her voice to trail off had given his curiosity a jump-start. Her voice had shadowed over slightly, in a dazed way, and it was beginning to irk him.

"What happened?" There was no point in being subtle or beating around the bush, one of them would get horribly confused if he resorted to such a tactic.

At her questioning stare he reached over and grabbed her arm, pulling up her sleeve just enough for her to see the bruises blotching and swelling across her flesh. She seemed to understand this, and her earlier frown creased as it deepened, "It… It's difficult to explain… and it'd take a while."

He ignored the urge to roll his eyes. Instead, he shrugged and offered rather blatantly, "We've got time… Hell, it's four in the morning. You don't have school tomorrow, do you?"

She shook her head, 'no'. "School doesn't start again for another few weeks."

"Well, then, explain," He said it in a breezy manner that was all-too false to his own ears. "I won't talk 'till the end…"

"It's not so simple," Her voice was shaded over again, cloaked beneath layers of emotions he couldn't quite place.

He nodded, shrugged, and resumed raiding the refrigerator as though he truly didn't care for her problems. Maybe he did, maybe he didn't; at the moment, he wasn't quite sure himself. Any other time, he might have found his situation humorous, but now… now he was just another faceless person stumbling through the streets, unable to find what they've lost, and incapable of healing their scars. When he'd owned Nomanisan, when he'd had the world in his hands, hadn't he sworn to himself that he'd never be like that? When he…

Syndrome turned quickly to face her, "I need to make a phone call."

She cocked an eyebrow at him, suspicion etched across her face, "What for?"

"Well, first, private, then I want pizza," He hoped she'd catch the sarcasm dripping off the last few words. He'd never been pizza's biggest fan, yet it sounded quite nice after he said it—an upgrade from the vegetarian hamburgers the hospital had shoved down his throat for lunch along with some off-orange mush.

As he'd wished, she caught the sarcasm. "You can't work the microwave, you're not gonna get anywhere with my phone. Though feel free to try."

She pointed at something attached to the wall beside the door, and he turned to inspect it. Upon doing so, he had a feeling she was right—it was a fading yellow square with scratches from what he assumed to be years of wear, and a long, curled chord dropping down and looping back up.

He looked over at her, resentment as plain in his eyes as the mild amusement was in hers. He groaned, huffing in a manner befitting a three-year-old, "This isn't fair."

It wasn't difficult to notice just how hard she was trying to suppress the laughter as she shook her head, "Weren't you supposed to be some sort of technological genius?"

"This," he pointed at the alleged phone, "is _not _technology. This is more primitive than the shit the Aztecs came up with."

"Actually, the Aztecs were pretty advanced."

He glared at her, "Incas, fine."

"Them too."

"Whatever. You get my point."

"That you've definitely lost half your brain? Yeah, I got that."

He tried very hard not to groan—she was getting her revenge for his earlier taunting, and succeeding quite well. Syndrome opened his mouth to respond, though unsure what exactly would come tumbling out through his lips, yet shut it again as he noticed that she was suddenly looking past him, the unmistakable expression of fear poised on her face.

He followed her gaze to the blank slits between the blinds sheeting the room's sole window, or rather, to the turquoise vehicle parking nonchalantly on the neighbor's driveway. He looked back over at her, noting how the pigmentation had suddenly drained itself completely from her face, and the way she'd suddenly gone rigid.

It was an interesting effect, yet sparked his curiosity even more. "Who's this?"

A pause, then, "My problem."

Without further commentary, she grabbed his arm and dragged him across the kitchen into the bathroom. Pulling open the shower door, she shoved him inside and slammed it shut, draping a beach towel over the top.

"Don't move, don't make a sound," She warned hastily, continuously glancing over her shoulder, "And whatever you do, _don't leave_."

With this stated, she walked out of the bathroom, eyes wide, pulling the door closed behind her just as the light buzz of the doorbell rang throughout the bungalow.

He watched through narrowed eyes as the door's latch fell back into place, and he strained his ears to hear the conversation as she opened the door. He caught fragments, yet this was enough to leave his already disturbed mind slightly more unsettled. It was a notion he didn't like.

Not one bit.

---------------------

Her fingers slipped and tumbled as she fumbled with the door handle, and she found it nearly impossible to keep her hold on the latch. Finally, she enclosed her sweating palms around the handle and twisted and pulled, and the door swung open uninvited before her.

_He _stood there on the porch, strained patience and cautious concern engraved in his face, his fingers clasping the bouquet of white roses in his hands. White roses, perfectly colored with a hint of strawberry-orange blush. He'd always claimed it to be her favorite, and she'd never had the heart to tell him otherwise; she _hated _roses.

His face lit up upon seeing her, yet the temporary light extinguished itself as he saw the way in which she held herself. He reached over with his right hand, lightly brushing the side of her face with the tips of his fingers, "I'm sorry, baby…"

She pulled away, her grip suddenly very firm on the door handle. Her quiet voice held much less derision than she felt as she responded, "You were last time too. And the time before that…"

"Vi, we discussed this," he stated, his expression and tone crestfallen. "I know I have a problem, Vi… I'll fix it. I _will_. Vi, you know I'd do anything for you."

"Anything _to _me," she corrected darkly, glaring at him through otherwise gentle coffee-brown eyes. "You've always said this! You _never _follow through, Tony, never!"

"Yeah, but… look, this time'll be different. I promise, baby, I promise," He was getting desperate, it was obvious by the tone in his voice, and she allowed her grip on the handle to tighten once more.

She shook her head, "Show me."

"What?"

"You want me to believe you, Tony? Then prove it. Prove to me you can do it."

His eyes had gotten wide, as though this was something he hadn't counted on, "Vi, I can't do it without you here. Beside me. I can't do anything without you beside me…"

"You're going to have to. I can't do this anymore… I just… I can't."

"Are _you _breaking up with _me_?" He responded, his eyes suddenly narrowing dangerously, as though daring her to answer.

She ignored his expression, his menacing eyes, and instead looked passed him as she answered, her voice quiet and calm yet precarious all the same, "Yes. And if you don't leave now, I swear to you I'll take this to court."

"Bitch," he sneered his response, yet didn't let off any signs of planning to leave. Instead, he lunged forwards, wrapped one arm around her waist and the other around her shoulders, and pressed his mouth hard against hers.

She shoved him off, only to have him come at her again. His hand suddenly enveloped her wrist and he pried her fingers away from the door, slamming it shut behind him. With this, he shoved her back against the table, and she collapsed to the floor with a loud _'thud'_, where she laid sprawled and dazed on her stomach.

He approached her and violently rolled her onto her back, trying to get a decent grip on her wrists once more. Before he had the chance, however, she pulled her knees up and kicked him off her with all her strength, yet hardly managed to get off the floor before he rebounded, pinning her against the wall.

"What the hell are you doing?" She cried, fighting against him as best she could without invoking the aid of her super powers. "Get off of me!"

He responded with a maniac grin and a silence that left her more terrified than the events playing out around her. This time, he'd gone too far.

* * *

**A/N: **Eh… hate writing stuff like that, so please excuse crappiness of writing up there, but I needed it to happen.

**J752572: **Yippee—another reader! Yup, had to do something with the popcorn (which seems to be more evil than Syndrome is acting, course I don't think he was ever evil, but that's a very long story for a different time…), and you liked the impulsive part? Cool! Thanks for reviewing!

**Melady101: **Wow; you're exaggerating aren't you? No, don't tell me. Makes me feel all happy-like. _Anyways_, thanks for the comment on the conversations—I was kind of iffy about how it was working out, so this was very, very nice. Hope this was a soon enough update, but school is evil…

**Angoliel: **Um… I think I'm going towards either cliffs, roadblocks, corners, or the marathon. Not quite sure yet… Thanks for the review!

**PitBullLady: **You're not psychic are you? No giving away plotlines (although that one was kind of obvious…). And "boyfriend" will suffer, just not so soon…

**Xalias: **Ooo, thanks—smiley face _and _a badge—I feel special. Hm… I wonder if anybody does know what that check box is for…

**R.K.R.: **Updating, updating, updating… is this okay for you?

**Silver Salamander: **Yeah, I know. Currently I have it in my mind that Violet's grown into a semi-decent person, and at the moment is thoroughly confused and slightly damaged. It might be effecting her judgment…

Alright, review, _please_!


	6. Chapter V: Lost

**Spiral**  
**Chapter V: _Lost_****  
By EclipseKlutz **

**PG-13, T  
****Argh… still dunno: Drama? Angst? Horror? Death to us all?**

**Disclaimer: **Uh-huh. I own my foot. I think… I hope… possibly. Anyways, don't own _The Incredibles_; if I did this wouldn't be _fan_fiction, would it?

**A/N: **Also, I've recently been holding debates with several anonymous people over the current relationship between Syndrome and Violet. I was informed quite blatantly that I'm portraying Syndrome as all bark and no bite, and that the way they relate to each other is a bit less hostile than it is in other fics. So, before anyone else confronts me on this—it's intentional. Maybe someday I'll explain it here, if you really want to know than e-mail or IM me or whatever… By the way, due to recent transformations in the story, this is likely to end up as a Syndrome/Violet ficcy. All right, now go read the story.

* * *

_"…I don't want to be the one  
The battles always choose  
'Cause inside I realize  
That I'm the one confused…"_  
**Linkin Park: **Breaking the Habit

* * *

Something toppled over in the kitchen, the sound of its crash accompanied by frantic screams and sobs. The noises echoed in his head—bouncing around and taunting him, telling him that he needed to do something… that he was weak for simply standing there with his hand on the doorknob.

He wanted to help. Wanted to run out there and… and what? Why should he bother? This was _Violet Parr_ he wanted so badly to assist—the daughter of the man that had destroyed his life. She could easily defend herself… right?

A groan seeped through his lips as his conscience snapped at him, reminding him of the state in which he'd first found her. If she _could _protect herself, the bruises that defined the colors of her skin might not exist. She was as lost as he was—trapped in the woods with no trail. Did she choose to be there?

Did he?

Another scream and broken cry escaped from the kitchen, this time followed by a sadistic laughter that broke through his conflict. She needed him, and he needed to do this. If he didn't…

He stopped that specific train of thoughts as he twisted the knob and slipped into the small kitchen, only to be instantly confronted by the mess of splintered furniture and droplets of blood. The man—Tony?—had his back to him, one hand clutching the leg of one of the trashed chairs, the other entwined in Violet's hair, holding her painfully in place.

There was no need to assess the situation, and Syndrome snatched up a conveniently placed knife from the counter as he approached the two cautiously. As Tony raised his makeshift club once more, Syndrome pressed the cold blade against Tony's right carotid and placed a hand on his target's opposite shoulder.

"Let her go," Syndrome hissed, adding just enough weight to the knife for it to break the flesh, yet not quite dig into the artery.

Tony hesitated, shocked, and, upon finding himself unable to turn and face his attacker, stated, "What business is this of yours? How'd you get in here?"

"Undisclosed," Syndrome responded, his voice remaining dangerously quiet. "Now, let her go—I'm _not _telling you again."

As his victim again paused, Syndrome shifted enough so that the blade of the knife was resting on Tony's throat. At this, Tony let out a small grunt of defeat, and untangled his hand from Violet's hair. She stumbled backwards into the wall before finally collapsing to the ground, holding her head.

"Good," Syndrome muttered, spinning Tony around so that he now faced the door. "Now _leave_."

He pulled the knife away from the man's throat, and prodded his back harshly as he pushed him towards the entrance. Tony obliged reluctantly, turning to face Syndrome as he shut the door behind him; the look of silent recognition engraved on his face was all but unnerving.

Syndrome sighed as the door slammed back into its frame, and knelt down beside the girl that through some stroke of insanity he'd defended. Curled up in the corner, she looked more fragile than he ever imagined. Fresh tearstains coated her cheeks, along with small patches of slowly drying blood; her hands were pressed flat on the floor, as though trying to support her although she knew the effort was in vain—she was clinging to consciousness by little more than a thread.

Gingerly, he slipped an arm around her back and the other beneath her knees, and slowly lifted her from the ground. She rested her head against his chest, her breathing shallow and uneven as she murmured softly, "Th-thank you…"

He looked down at her small frame in surprise yet offered a slight nod as he gently set her down on the couch and draped the same blanket from the night before over her.

"How do you feel?" he inquired benignly.

She offered a small groan in response, "Like I was hit by a train…"

"Heh. Someone ought to castrate that guy," he stated bitterly, yet made it a point to quickly change the topic after his comment. "I'm gonna get you an ice pack… do you need anything else?"

"Uh-uh," she mumbled. "Ice pack sounds nice… more Advil, too?"

"Sure," he shrugged, picking the remote control off the ground and handing it to her. She stared at the object blankly for a moment before she seemed to register just what it was and tapped the power button gently. He exited the room slowly, the voice of a reporter covering the breaking news for the fiftieth time that night drifting around in his wake.

The first thing he grabbed at wasn't a towel or a bottle of pills so much as an outdated cube dubbed a 'phone'. It took a moment or so of dry determination and concentration to finally dial the numbers he wanted and receive a signal, yet the result worked to his advantage when a very familiar voice answered.

"Mirage?" he inquired hopefully, fiddling with the cord.

There was a pause on the other end, before the tinny voice responded with little belief, "Buddy?"

"Yeah…" Silence greeted his announcement, and he frowned as he began to press the matter, "What? Aren't you happy to hear from me?"

"Y-yes, of… of course I am… Where have you been? It's been _four _years Buddy—oh, God, I thought you were dead—I'm so sorry I didn't… where are you?"

"I can answer your other questions later, Mirage. Right now I'm in a bit of a… um, predicament… Turn on your television."

"Um…" A pause followed before the slightly muffled sounds of telecasters reached the phone, followed by Mirage's stunned voice. "Oh."

"Yeah. Can you pick me up?"

"Now?"

"It'd be… appreciated."

"I—I… I've got a family, now, Buddy. I can't just leave this early in the morning…"

A twinge of sadness swept through him at something she'd said, yet he quickly stifled the emotion as he responded timidly, "What if I told you I saved some one… and that some one who doesn't like me knows where I am… and that I'm in a Hell of a lot of shit if you don't come?"

"It depends… who'd you save?"

"Violet Parr."

Silence, then, "Where are you?"

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry for kind of terrible writing. My muse jumped off a cliff and died… nothing is working for me right now…

**Rogue4: **Thanks! And of course he'll save the day—he has to. I won't let him _not _come to the rescue… I've never had Twinkies…

**Angoliel: **Oh. Sorry. Have no brainpower at the moment. "Undecided about this story?" Please elaborate.

**J752572: **If it helps, that's probably the worst cliff-hanger you're going to get. I don't like them either… and I don't know how to make them without pissing myself off… lol—hope the wait wasn't too long.

**Gremblin: **Yup. Syndrome has mental issues he needs to work out… Or rather those things that stand on your shoulder and tell you what to do—he needs to get rid of them.

**PitBullLady: **Um… yeah. I don't like Tony; no idea why, but I don't like him… I was tempted to see what would happen if he stayed in the bathroom—have that version _somewhere_. It's a very scary story… I even feel bad for Tony…

**Ryou-slash-Bakura's Wench: **lol. Well, like how it turned out or do I have to fix stuff? Tony got off easy… _this _time…

_**REVIEW**_. Please? I'll give you a cookie…?


	7. Chapter VI: Sold

**Spiral**  
**Chapter VI: _Sold_  
By EclipseKlutz**

**PG-13, T  
Yup.**

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _The Incredibles_, or anything affiliated with them. Simply this plot…

* * *

_"…And you sold me up the river again  
And made me start it over again  
And you moved me, and you soothed me, and you fought me  
And you left me wondering what the hell  
What is wrong with me?"_  
**Seether: **Sold Me

* * *

Dim pink light leaked through the windowpanes, spilling itself across her small figure as she groggily made an attempt to roll over to escape the unwanted luminosity. Instead, however, she tumbled to the floor, dragging the thin blanket and a pillow with her. He watched this display with mild amusement as he continued to pull at the blinds, releasing yet more light into the small room.

"What the helldo you want?" She groaned, not moving from where she lay.

He smirked, maneuvering around the couch to kneel down beside her and wave a plastic bag stuffed with Advil in her face. "We're leaving."

"_We_?" She responded, blinking slowly as she grabbed at the bag. "Uh-uh… no. I'm staying here, thank you."

He shook his head, "No… you see, that's not an option. Your maniac boyfriend knows who I am, and so do you… also, I don't much like the idea of him comin' back and you being alone."

"Uh-huh… why?"

"'Cause it's _my _job to take out the Incredibles—he's stealing my gig."

"You realize you're a horrible villain, right?"

"Or you could stay here…"

"You gonna hold ransom?"

"Does it _look _like I need money?"

"Honestly?"

"Shut up."

"Fine, fine, fine," she mumbled, pulling herself into something that vaguely resembled a sitting position. As she rubbed sleep from her eyes she inquired with prolonged bleariness, "What do I need?"

He shrugged, standing up and offering a hand for her to do the same, "Nothin' unless it's desperately needed… a lap top, basically… do you own one? But no phones, no bedspreads, and absolutely _no _microwaves."

"Okay… I don't need anythin' then… can I go back to sleep now?" She stated, ignoring his hand as she thought over the given list.

"Nope," he replied, and, having given up on waiting for her to catch the hint, leaned over and grabbed her beneath the arms, pulling her to her feet. "We have to leave now."

She glared at him, shrinking away from him slightly as she rubbed her shoulders, noticing a few bruises in the process that she was certain hadn't been there before.

He frowned as she peeled down the collar of her shirt to inspect her scapula, and he grabbed the thin yellow blanket from the floor before draping it across her shoulders. At her questioning glance, he shrugged and stated, "It's a long drive… and that's not a bedspread."

Violet nodded slowly, apparently still dreary and tired, as she followed him through the kitchen and out of the house, not bothering to lock it behind her. _That _would appear suspicious.

Syndrome allowed a half-smile at the site of Mirage's silver car parked a little down the road, the windows blacked out in the back as they'd always been to prevent anyone from seeing what or who she was transporting. Placing a hand gently on her nearest shoulder, he guided his companion towards the vehicle, and she followed along in a quiet sullenness that seemed to hint at her desire to sleep the minute she sat down.

He had a feeling it was the mass amounts of assorted pills he'd forced her to swallow earlier… and the Nyquil.

As they neared, Mirage flung open the driver's door and with the usual display of grace, swept over to them. She ignored Syndrome for a minute, as she pulled Violet into a gentle embrace, muttering, "How are you, dear?"

"Eh…"

It took most of Syndrome's self control not to burst out in insane laughter at the response Violet had offered, yet Mirage seemed to accept this as she steered Violet towards the vehicle and opened up the front passenger door for her. Violet nodded and slipped in, pulling the blanket tighter around her as she did so.

Syndrome followed, slumping into the backseat as Mirage slid back into her place. Grinning slightly, he asked his former secretary, "So, how've you been?"

"Just _perfect_."

The voice wasn't Mirage's—definitely more masculine, and coming from directly beside him. Syndrome turned, hesitantly, looking over at the lump of a shadow resting next to the opposite door. His expression turned into one of menace as he growled with an unusual amount of casualty, "Mr. Incredible."

* * *

**A/N:** Bleh… I have _no _time anymore. Sorry! The only time I can get around to writing this is at six in the morning, and that'll never turn out to my advantage--hence why this update severly sucks, but I'm getting to some action... I think... So, being as I have to leave soon, I can't respond to reviews—but is it asking too much for thirty-seven reviews by the next chapter?

Also, the moment I have a few free hours, I have plans to rewrite this, for the sake that there's more of a plotline and it moves faster and also, longer chapters. 'Course, won't post _that _one 'till I finish the entirety of it, so… yeah.


	8. Chapter VII: Two Steps Back

_Dedicated to Great Oma, although you deserve something much better written, if not your own gold-laden statue in the middle of Amsterdam. Love you with all my heart, and wish you the goodbyes I never gave. Please find your peace._

* * *

**Spiral  
Chapter VII: ****_Two Steps Back  
_By EclipseKlutz**

**PG-13, T  
Uh-huh**

**Disclaimer: **_Incredibles _belongs to a group of brilliant people… in otherwise, not me. I'm not a group…

* * *

_"…Falling away, taking the fall  
__Can't even find no peace at all  
__Will we ever change? No taking it back  
__One step forward, two steps back…"  
_**Saliva: **Two Steps Back

* * *

"Syndrome," was the responding greeting, laced with abhorrence and resentment, as Mr. Incredible leaned out of the shadows just enough to look his opponent in the eyes. The fire dancing around in Bob Parr's eyes was enough to terrify any who looked at him—the man had some things pent up, and he was quite ready to take it out on the red-haired techno-geek beside him. 

A boyish scowl that furrowed his eyebrows trespassed onto Syndrome's face as he looked over at Mirage in disbelief, "You set me up!"

"What did you do to my daughter?" Mr. Incredible roared in reply, once again talking for the blonde. "Mirage didn't turn you in, she said something was wrong with _my daughter_! You think I'll stay put and leave her with you?"

"Dad," Violet murmured, looking over at her father with slight dismay, "it's okay, Dad… he never… he never hurt me."

"Then what are those bruises from?" He hissed back, motioning at the few bruises visible across her pale skin. "Do you expect me to think you fell—why are you covering for him—what did he do to you!"

"_Nothing_. Dad… I-it wasn't him…"

"I don't give a damn, Vi—if you can't tell the truth, I'll make _him_!"

"Dad-_NO_!"

But her defense was a bit too late, and Mr. Incredible lunged forwards, grabbing his enemy by the throat and pinning him against the window before proceeding to choke the life from him. Syndrome swatted at his hands with all the resistance he could muster, until finally the car door fell out behind him and he toppled to the ground, dragging the Good Samaritan, Bob Parr, with him.

The air shifted immediately out of Syndrome lungs as the impact of the collision took effect, and he lay there gasping as Mr. Incredible did the same nearby. Suddenly, with unexpected force, he was hauled to his feet, and Syndrome looked up half expecting to see Mr. Incredible miraculously standing there and once again prepared to throttle him. Instead, he found himself staring at a very worried Violet.

"You okay?" She mumbled hastily, grabbing his wrist and checking his pulse before he could even think to protest.

Not far off, Mr. Incredible rolled onto his side, gaping at the scene before him. "You… You're saving _him_? Fr-from _me_?"

"Dad," she protested hastily, "He didn't hurt me—it wasn't him. He_ saved_ me."

Mr. Incredible stared at her in disbelief and bewilderment, "Vi, do you know what this man did?"

"Kind of…." She mumbled uncertainly, yet quickly took a slightly more stubborn tone to her voice before continuing. "But you always say it doesn't matter what someone does—they always deserve a second chance. Why can't you take your own advice for a change, dad? People _do _change… and he did."

She tightened her hold on Syndrome's wrist, as though to tell him to keep his mouth shut and not say anything that might ruin her argument. Inwardly he sighed, wondering how she could possibly think that anyone as self-beneficial as him would bother to interfere in a case like this.

"He's using you," Bob Parr answered, however his tone sounded suddenly defeated. "Vi, he couldn't have changed—he killed dozens of Supers, dozens of people like _us_, and he didn't care. He nearly killed you and your brother and threatened to corrupt Jack-Jack… He's using you—he's turning you against me. He didn't change!"

With this said, he leapt forwards, tackling Syndrome out of Violet's grip and to the ground, where he resumed his earlier task of strangling him, only this time with the addition of the occasional borage of punches. Eyes wide in horror, Violet stepped in, attempting with all her strength to pry him off of the other man.

When Mr. Incredible turned to argue with her decision, Syndrome took the opportunity and pulled his knees to his chest and kicking upward, sending Mr. Incredible toppling off to the side. Quickly, he climbed to his feet, grabbing a stunned Violet around the waist and pulling her towards him as he pulled out the knife he'd strapped to his forearm beneath his clothes in case an event like this should arrive. Taking a step back just as Mr. Incredible pulled himself to his feet and pressed the knife against Violet's throat—yet not hard.

"Back off," he warned as he took another step away from his opponent, careful to make sure he guided Violet along with him.

"I told you," was Mr. Incredibles reply, his eyes on his daughters before finally shifting over to Syndrome's. "Let her go."

"No. Let's make this simple: You back off, go home. I'll return her to you safely, _completely _unharmed, once I'm sure I'm safe. Kapish?"

Mr. Incredible's eyes narrowed, yet he pulled open the car door and slipped inside—this one act saying thousands of things without the need to voice them.

Syndrome continued to back up, not releasing his hold on Violet until the car was completely out of sight. She staggered to the side, gingerly touching her throat as she observed him through slightly widened eyes: "That's got to be the stupidest thing you've ever done."

* * *

**A/N: **Sorry that this chapter truly wasn't worth the wait, but my muse died and then I was shipped off to camp for six weeks. Feeble excuse, huh? I apologize, and will rewrite this ASAP so it's more worth your time…Also, I'm sorry--I've got no time for review responses... so extra long ones next time?

Please, please, **please** review, even if you didn't like it.


	9. Chapter VIII: Terminal

**Spiral  
Chapter VIII: ****_Terminal  
_By EclipseKlutz **

**PG-13, T**  
**Still pending…**

**Disclaimer: **Shall I continue with the "if I"'s or just skip ahead to the part where I don't own it?

**A/N: **Because I love you guys so much for all the reviews (and also because I lack a life), I now present to you the longest chapter yet... but only bya page...

* * *

_"…What I really meant to say  
__Is I'm sorry for the way I am  
__I never meant to be so cold…"  
_**Crossfade: **Cold

* * *

She didn't talk much afterwards. Instead she just followed him, a vacant expression harbored on her face as though she was trying to figure something out, only speaking when it seemed required or when the man in charge of rental cars kept glancing oddly at Syndrome and she was forced to intervene, claiming he was her step-brother and _not _the escaped convict whose picture frequented the television screen every five minutes. The man had only reluctantly accepted her answer, finally handing over the keys to the moss-colored bug Syndrome had very unhappily been forced to settle with after hearing they were out of hummers. 

After this she didn't have to talk as Syndrome seemed to be mumbling enough for the both of them as he complained about the rental car system. Yet her silence was short lived as he quite quickly took a wrong turn and she found herself obligated to point out that they wanted to go to the airport, not Mexico. After she was sure he was on the right track she allowed herself to relax, leaning her head against the back of the seat and closing her eyes—she still hadn't gotten that nap after all.

He allowed her, something she wasn't sure whether to interpret as a sign of hospitality or guilt. Sure, he wasn't like her; he didn't take the comfort of silence over exhausted arguments, yet instead choosing the opposite way around, arguing with every living soul (and in some cases nonliving) that crossed his path, yet leaving her out of it.

She stifled a yawn and allowed her thoughts to drift off to happier, or at least less sullen, topics until finally she drifted off into a dreamless sleep.

**-z-**

Syndrome drove the car into the nearest open space, quietly contemplating just how he was going to wander into an airport, past heavily armed security guards and well-informed citizens, without getting dragged back to the loony bin. He couldn't afford to go back there now—and he personally didn't want to be locked up in one of the even tighter security cells with more ill-mannered yet otherwise thoroughly useless guards holding very heavy sticks.

Yeah—not going back there sounded like a good idea…

He began inspecting himself in the rearview mirror, trying to decide just how obvious he was the "highly dangerous" criminal depicted on television. After a moment or so he concluded that his hair in the pictures was his old evil genius look—his hair now, well, not so much. That was a significant difference… right?

He twisted in his seat and tapped Violet's shoulder. She groaned and shoved his hand away, yet blinked all the same before offering groggily, "What?"

"We're here," he answered blandly, motioning at the parking garage around them. "Like it? Home sweet home."

The look she gave him in reward of his sarcasm, he decided, was priceless, yet she stumbled uncoordinatedly from the car anyways. Watching her, he made a mental note to lower the Nyquil dose next time and followed her movements with slightly more grace.

"So," she asked after a moment as they walked side-by-side through the parking garage, "where are we going and how are _you _going to manage to get on the plane?"

"Is it really _that _obvious?" He asked, running a hand through his orange hair.

She nodded, slowly, as though this were the most obvious thing in the world. "The guy in charge of rental cars figured you out."

"Yeah, but he was probably eyeing the next red-haired guy with the same theories," Syndrome argued weakly. He paused a moment then: "Okay, what're we gonna do?"

Faint traces of an almost malicious grin creased across her face as she answered, "Did you see any drug stores on the way here?"

"One…"

"Was it nearby?"

"Uh-huh…"

"Okay then, in the car and let's get going."

**-z-**

He'd been left to sit in the car, debating whether to be horrified or grateful, as she wandered into the oversized drugstore with his credit card (under a pseudonym, of course). She arrived just as he decided that somewhere in between the two emotions was his best bet, yet this quickly gave way to terror as he noticed the two bulging grocery bags in her grip.

One held a backpack, camouflage colored, for which she explained only hastily as she slipped a few books and magazines into its front pocket: "We need a place to put it when we're done…"

The other bag, he found, was what he _really _had to dread. She pulled out a canister of black washable spray paint and informed him to close his eyes before drenching his hair with the foul-smelling substance. Afterwards she combed his hair back into a ponytail at the nape of his neck, tying it with a white band before slapping a Steelers hat on his head (why a California drugstore had one, he'd never know). She leaned back to admire her work, nodded to herself, and handed him a contact case, which he only needed to open to find an explanation.

A half hour later he had black hair with a few red "highlights", brown eyes, and a wretchedly bright yellow shirt that matched his hat only too well. She seemed relatively happy with the outcome, but he… well…

"You're gonna regret this one, Parr," he stated, his brow furrowed into a boyish scowl as he caught his reflection in the mirror.

She simply nodded, offering an uninterested "uh-huh" in reply.

**-z-**

"Your plane will be waiting at terminal C-8. Have a nice flight," the man behind the counter said in black voice, his expression and uniform as mundane as his tone.

Syndrome nodded him off, readjusting the way the backpack dangled off his shoulder as he dragged Violet towards security. They only had eighteen minutes… less than.

He shoved his way into the shortest line, leaving Violet to offer insincere apologies as he dumped the bag and his shoes into a plastic gray box and pushed it onto the makeshift conveyer belt. She was much less ecstatic as she put her own shoes in a separate box and watch him step uncertainly into the scanner.

He got through.

A small sigh of relief escaped his throat as Violet finished slipping on her shoes, and he grabbed her hand the moment her heal entered the last one.

"Excuse me, sir?" One of the female security guards called after them.

He turned, on the verge of becoming hysterical, as the guard addressed him, "Hm?"

"You left your bag… and your shoes."

"Oh."

Another two minutes passed as he managed to put his shoes on the wrong feet and slip the backpack on upside down, minor dilemmas that Violet quickly helped him correct before steering him away by his elbow muttering so that only he could hear, "You know, for a mad genius, I'm seeing very little of the genius part."

He glared at her yet didn't respond, simply continued walking in silence and sulking. Nine minutes left… they'd just passed C-2.

"The Steelers _suck_!" a burly man cried at him stopping in front directly in front of them as he pointed self-importantly at the Browns jacket he wore. "The Browns are the best team—why don't you Pittsburgh folks just face it?"

Violet rolled her eyes, ignoring the way Syndrome tensed beside her at this new delay, "If I recall correctly, the Steelers pummeled the Browns in the last match… and the one before that."

He blinked at her and opened his mouth to respond, yet Syndrome angrily cut him off, "Get _OUT_ of my way."

"Or what?"

"Or I'll move you."

"Oh God," Violet murmured. "Can you make things easy for me once, please, Buddy?"

"Buddy?" The man repeated, apparently having heard her. "A sissy name for a fan of a sissy team."

"I don't care about the goddamn team," Syndrome answered, narrowing his eyes, his voice suddenly taking on a tone like poisoned honey, "and I'm late for my flight. So, _please _move."

"Again: Or _what_?"

"_Please _stop?" Violet pleaded feebly, her tired voice suggesting that she knew her efforts would wield no results.

As she had expected, she was ignored, and Syndrome stepped forward to deliver a well-aimed right hook at the man's jaw, repeating his earlier statement darkly as the man staggered backwards, "Or I'll move you."

The man quickly regained his balance and charged forward, sending blow after blow at Syndrome's face and chest, only to be quickly beat back. Syndrome would press persistently forward, forcing the slightly bigger man to give ground before he could retaliate; the man's fists were quicker than Syndrome's, and he had a bloody nose long before any part of the man's face became red and raw. Yet the fight was quick, stopped minutes later by three heavily armed security guards who pulled the men a part as the third, and only female, began to check pockets for IDs as she asked for the police over a sleek, black walkie-talkie.

She finished with the man after a minor argument, in which she dominated, and was slipping his wallet into his guard's hand as she turned to Violet. "Miss, you're an acquaintance of Mr."—she looked over at the open wallet in the guard's fist—"Barry Owens?"

"No, the other guy," Violet answered weakly, trying to figure out which alias, if any, would be present on Syndrome's ID.

The guard nodded, "You'll have to accompany him, do you mind?"

"No."

"Good."

With this, the guard to Syndrome and paused, a slight smirk forming on her face as he hissed in an almost accusing tone, _"You_."

Her smirk widened as she announced to the other two guards, "Well, boys, looks to me like we've got the infamous Buddy Pine. Again."

* * *

**A/N: **Okay, not much of a cliffhanger, huh? Anyways, I apologize for the football controversy and the bashing of either team--technically Buddy should be wearing the Browns hat as I'm from Ohio and he's stuck here as I plot the story... Also am leaving town fortwo days tomorrow morning, yet if you guys can do me a **tremendous** favor and get me over sixty reviews, I will update as soon as I get back. 

Again, don't have enough time for review responses - need to pack - but thank you for the wonderful reviews you have given me. Well, until next time--see ya. And please review.


	10. Chapter IX: Circles

**Spiral  
Chapter IX: ****_Circles  
_By EclipseKlutz**

* * *

"…_Today I'm drawing circles  
__In my memories, in the pages of my life  
__That's me for a long time  
__I can't run away…"  
_**Lacuna Coil: **Circles

* * *

The petit woman had wasted no time ordering the guards to update the police with her discovery before rounding on Violet and informing her that she had the right to remain silent, although she'd most likely already condemned herself for aligning herself on the side of a highly dangerous fugitive. Violet had simply swallowed and nodded as Buddy protested loudly, spinning out the entire story with the exception of a few parts that were strictly Violet's business, and afterwards demanded that she be released into the custody of her family.

At this, Violet nearly forgot to breathe due to shock, and the woman laughed, declaring menacingly, "Oh, Buddy—you _never _change."

"Yeah," he answered bitterly. "I'm _still _walking in circles."

She cocked an eyebrow, nonverbally announcing her disbelief, "Only now you're honest… about some things. So, who's your new sidekick? What happened to Mirage?"

"She's not my sidekick—she's my _hostage_. Gees, you didn't change either—still deaf as a dead cow and as ugly as one too. Four years really isn't that long, is it?" Buddy responded casually, his voice only vaguely accented with his otherwise obvious frustration.

The woman glared at him, yet her attention was quickly diverted by something over his shoulder—something that caused an even crueler smirk to make itself present on her features, "And here come the police, Buddy—I advise you remain silent before you get yourself in the death row for sheer idiocy."

Buddy mumbled something about "biased fuzz" and stood quietly while they approached. Violet, however, wasn't taking it so easily, and the moment the lady turned to consult the police, Vi allowed herself to fade away. No one other then Buddy noticed—although he quickly disappeared as well, something that definitely caught everyone's attention.

As the girl dragged him through the terminal, and then proceeded to pull him into C-8, he hissed to what he assumed was her ear, even though he couldn't actually see it: "How'd you do that?"

"Somethin' I picked up recently," she said in a quiet tone, pushing him into the crowd before allowing the pigmentation to slowly return to both of them. "Here's the plane, let's get on it and get out… but you've some explaining to do."

He frowned, "I suppose I do."

With a quick glance over his shoulder, he followed her onto the plane and to their seats, and neither of them said anything else until the plane was safely in the air.

**-z-**

"So, who was she?" Violet inquired after half an hour of strained silence. Her head was resting against the window and her knees pulled up to her chest, the itchy blue blanket supplied by the airplane company draped over her small form.

Syndrome sighed as he looked over at her, slightly grateful for the distraction from the flight magazine he was fruitlessly attempting to read. "Her name's Fera Myers, ex-officer."

Violet nodded, apparently biting back a yawn. "What were you two talking about?"

His lips creased in a frown and he leaned his head against the back of the seat, talking quietly to ensure that she was the _only _person who could hear him, "Four years ago, Gazerbeam posed a bit of a problem. A lot of a problem, actually. He discovered too much—the passwords, the plot. Hell, he almost got to warning your dad… which he did anyway, now that I think about it. So, Mirage persuaded me to take him out myself… I dragged her along, she tripped, got us caught—and the fed on duty happened to be Officer Myers. She had me for all of ten minutes, but a few nifty devices later, I was free and she'd been demoted… I don't think she was too happy."

"She's working as a security guard in an airport. I wouldn't be too happy either," Violet replied dryly.

He offered a wry chuckle in response before stuffing the flight brochure back into the pocket of the seat before him and bending over to fish through the contents of the back pack. After a moment, he uncovered a novel—Alex Haley's _Roots_—and began to read, figuring there was not much left to talk about.

However, he found he was quite wrong.

As he opened the book and began skimming the first page, Violet drew in a quick breath and asked in a voice that just barely surpassed a whisper, "Do you regret it?"

"Hm?" He responded, once again looking up to face her.

"What you did, four years ago. Do you regret it?"

He shrugged, returning his gaze to the book before him, "I don't think about it."

"Yes you do."

"And you would know what I think how?"

She sighed slightly, watching the clouds with a sort of detached interest, "I don't. But you think about it. You're not a very good liar."

Finally he shook his head, "It's all circles, dear. There's two ways to look at it—from the view of a hero and that of a villain. The hero hates it, says it was a pointless way to get revenge. The villain lives by it but constantly says that it should have been slightly more violent, more clean-cut. Both agree on one thing though."

She lifted her head just slightly to get a proper view of him, "And what's that?"

He offered a rather sad smile, turning back to the book in his hands so he wouldn't have to look at her face as he said, "If it'd never happened, I wouldn't have been there to save you."

* * *

**A/N: **I'm terrible at updating when I say I will, so thank you _so _much for sticking with me this long. And all the reviews? Wow… I'd reply here but that's no longer allowed, so I'm sorry—but _please _continue to review, it's very helpful. :-) 


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